


Clavis Aurea

by splix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Discussion of Rape, Genderswap, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sherlock/John - Freeform, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, Rescue, Sherlock Whump, Torture, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on his mission to bring down Moriarty's network, Sherlock encounters an old acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell](http://archiveofourown.org/works/503706). Best if you read that for nuance, but not entirely necessary for context.
> 
> Thanks to kimberlite for stellar beta.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/splix/media/hiddleston/0e9dde7a-afca-4500-be03-296bad5ebc5d_zps1e56e73d.jpg.html)  
> 

_"Titanium. Strongest metal in the world." The man tapped the thin ring against the glass counter._

_"Debatable. A case can be made for tungsten and osmium as well, depending upon the criteria under discussion. Tensile strength, density, thermal conductivity, that sort of thing."_

_The man behind the counter blinked. "This one's titanium."_

_"Apparently," Sherlock sighed. "Go on, then. Show me."_

_Slowly and with overweening theatricality, the clerk raised the ring and, from its interior band, slid out a tiny saw about fifty millimetres long. He turned the ring this way and that. "Five seconds to cut through rope and gaffer tape, ten through zip ties. Picks handcuffs as well." He winked. "Most of the fellows I sell it to have a certain lifestyle, if you follow. And I don't know when I'll get the next shipment in. I only have five left."_

_"One in every size, no doubt. Convenient." Sherlock ignored the lascivious wink and plucked the ring from the man's hand. Narrow-eyed, he scrutinised the tiny serrated edge, gleaming in the dull light of the shop. "The blade's not titanium. It's steel."_

_The man's face darkened. "It's not. Are you calling me a liar?"_

_"Not necessarily. You could just be stupid." Sherlock took the ring to a curio cabinet holding an odd assortment of porcelain miniatures, knives, and sex toys. He opened it and held the ring next to the interior closure; the ring trembled in his hand, then leapt to the little magnet on the closure, blade first. "Titanium is non-magnetic. This is steel." He tugged the ring away and folded the blade back inside. "Still, seems useful enough. I'll give you ten for it."_

_"Ten!" the clerk exclaimed in outrage. "I sell it for sixty." He spat on his already filthy floor._

_"Good luck selling it to someone as stupid as you are. I'm certain you'll be wildly successful." Sherlock shrugged and sauntered toward the door._

_"Thirty!"_

_Sherlock stopped in his tracks. His mouth twisted upward briefly before he turned back. "Fifteen."_

_"Twenty-five."_

_They settled on twenty._

_*_

_They'd kept a close eye on him for a few hours, so he couldn't make use of the ring. Apparently careful guardianship was in order when the burly thugs denailed him, even though Sherlock was bent over a stained lathe table, his ankles and one wrist tied to the legs, a sharpened screwdriver tracing gentle arcs over his carotid artery. The rag they'd stuffed in his mouth had muffled the worst of his shrieks, but they were still loud enough to provoke one of the men into pushing another rag, tasting foully of machine-shop oil, into his mouth. Nauseated, his fingers pinpoints of purest agony, Sherlock had choked and struggled not to vomit._

_The biggest thug, and the most impassive, had carefully closed the pliers levers, slippery with blood, around the nail of Sherlock's ring finger. The titanium ring, softly lustrous a few hours ago, was brownish-red and sticky, like the rest of his hand. Sherlock had kept his gaze focussed on it. If they'd only leave him alone for a half hour…._

_Someone had pulled the rags from his mouth. A hand had brushed over his hair. "What's your name? Your real name, now."_

_"I told you. It's Sig. Sig Sherrinford. Check my passport, my driver's licence. Please, why are you doing this to –"_

_"Go on," another voice said softly._

_The rags had been forced back into his mouth as the levers tightened on his fingernail. He'd thrashed madly, pleading uselessly behind the gag, but the steel implement had pulled, upward, and the bleeding had begun again._

_Incandescent pain. Excruciating. They'd make him scream until his throat ruptured._

_But then, they'd stopped. Tied his free wrist – not that he'd have been able to use the hand – to the table leg. Tied a long shred of his shirt round his head to keep the rags in his mouth._

_Rope. A possibility. He couldn't have managed cuffs with his hand in such a state._

_"What's that?" Thick fingers had grasped his. He'd screamed, but feebly, this time, weakly. A child's wail. "Worth anything?"_

_No. No, don't._

_"Could be. I'll split it with you."_

_"Fuck off. I saw it first."_

_No. No. No, no, no…._

_The fingers had pulled the ring off, scraping against the raw flesh of his exposed nail bed. Another shriek. The ring had disappeared, slipped into a pocket. Someone had yanked a dark pillow case over Sherlock's head, leaving him blind._

_Those thick fingers had patted his backside. "Don't go anywhere, sweet thing. We'll be back."_

_The lights had gone out, and they'd left him alone. Bound, mute, bleeding, sightless, helpless._

_Twenty euros down the drain._

 

*

 

His interior clock had failed him some time ago; he kept slipping in and out of a nightmarish daze of pain and exhaustion. The hard metal of the lathe table cut into the flesh of his abdomen, uncomfortable enough to force him into standing nearly on the tips of his toes in order to avoid it. He tugged now and then at the ropes twisted tightly round his left wrist, then tried to saw the ropes against the edge of the table, but there was no give and his skin was a raw circlet of fire; he'd wear the flesh to the bone before he freed himself.

He couldn't stop. They'd be back soon, and God only knew what they had in store for him next. A tool and die shop seemed to hold infinite possibilities of suffering for the imaginative torturer.

A soft whimper escaped him as he tried his right wrist. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He was amazed that he had any moisture left in his body at all. Nearly thirty-six hours had passed since he'd last eaten or drunk; he supposed he should have been grateful that his dehydration meant that he hadn't pissed himself. He _was_ grateful that he couldn't see the spongy, bloody mess his left hand had become. _Focus. Focus. Sight is a distraction. If they haven't completely torn out the nail matrix, regeneration should be fairly rapid._

Sherlock's vision faded to a soft grey beneath the pillowcase. He jerked his left wrist against the ropes; agony wrenched a moan from his gagged mouth and drove him into full consciousness.

_The pain won't last. Find the knot. Fast, you god-damned idiot. They're coming back._

Somewhere above him and to his left – the tool-shop office, then, at the top of a flight of concrete stairs – there was a loud crash. He froze, held his breath, waited for the screech of door hinges, heavy-booted feet, the bite of pliers. They would test the limits of his endurance, and he would fail. All that time spent, all his meticulous work. Gone.

_Was that all?_

Swallowing, he pushed the treacherous thought away. He couldn't succumb to sentiment now, not after…all this. He tugged on the ropes again, biting on the rags to suppress the scream that rose in his throat. Desperation gave him more strength, but it wasn't enough. They'd return. They'd torture him again. Eventually he'd talk, everyone talked eventually, even Sherlock, and he knew far too much to talk now, to betray himself and everyone he'd been trying to protect. With Moriarty gone, they mightn't go after Mrs. Hudson, nor Lestrade.

But John….

Another hateful whimper emerged from behind the rags. He yanked with both hands and the pain exploded white-hot in his fingernails. His consciousness faded, then snapped back as he heard the groan of metal hinges.

They were coming back.

No patience, these four. They hadn't begun with subtle interrogation and moved up the scale; they'd beaten him first, asked a few questions, then had gone straightaway into denailing. Brutal stupidity, or pressed for time? Neither mattered much, as the results were the same. Sherlock slowed his breathing. The Sig Sherrinford, hapless tourist, story hadn't worked. He'd have to move on. He had another eight or ten layers of legend to unveil, if he managed to hold out that long. The more time he could buy for John, the better. If only there were some way to warn him….

Footsteps sounded on the rough stairs, deliberate and measured, lighter-sounding than the four booted henchmen. Their ringleader, perhaps. Fear trickled a bright irrigating trail through his nervous system, leaving him exhausted and trembling like a miler after a four-minute sprint.

_The machine's a bit defective, John. Mainspring's winding down, cogs and gears are worn. Sorry, sorry._

The footsteps moved toward him with quiet grace. Not leather soles; rubber or Vibram. Someone light on his feet, not a typical workman's solid tread. The footsteps stopped a metre or so from Sherlock's bound body. He smelled leather – aged, not new, treated with oil – a faint tang of petrol, and a soft accord of amber, spices, vetiver, wood. _Bois d'Encens._ A criminal with expensive tastes. Friend of Moriarty's.

"For someone so convinced of his prowess in all aspects of escapology, you seem to be incapacitated on a fairly regular basis."

Sherlock's gasp was muffled by the gag. 

_Impossible. Auditory hallucination brought on by hunger and dehydration and pain._

"Come on, Sherlock. It hasn't been that long, surely?"

The pillow case was pulled off his head, and Sherlock blinked in the dimness, but even in the gloom, the face and body was unmistakable.

Ian Adler smiled down at him. "Hi."

Renewed adrenalin surged through Sherlock's body. _Still working for Moriarty. Couldn't resist._ He struggled again and snarled through the gag, glaring at Ian.

"Hey. Hey! Relax." Ian put his hand out and brushed lank, dirty hair out of Sherlock's eyes. "Calm down. I'm going to get you out of here."

_Lying. He's lying. Trying to lull you into cooperating._

"Sherlock, hold still, for Christ's sake. I'll cut you free." Ian pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and grasped Sherlock's left hand.

The pain was an icepick driven into raw, bleeding flesh. Sherlock cried out, too weak to give voice to a full-throated scream, and then lost consciousness with a sensation of the most profound gratitude. As he tumbled into oblivion, he heard Ian's voice echoing hollowly back through a night-dark tunnel.

"Oh, dear God. Sherlock. Sherlock?"


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

Warmth surrounded him, and softness, and a pleasant fragrance he'd smelled before but couldn't identify now. Humming, low and melodious, hovered just over his head. He felt as if he were floating and knew the feeling was associated with something familiar. Something he hadn't experienced in a long while. It felt good now, though. Comfortable. Lovely.

The humming stretched out, elongated, and sharpened into distinct sounds. 

"…three or four hours." A woman's voice, speaking French. He didn't know it. Her.

"What did you give him?" That voice he knew. Male. He couldn't think of the name.

"Fentanyl. Only the one shot. He's rather lucky; only one nail was torn off completely. What's left will shield the beds from excessive pain and sensitivity, and protect the skin while the new nails grow back. It will take some time, though. Be certain they remain bandaged. In a week or so, a simple plaster should suffice to protect the nail bed." The voice stopped; there was a long silence. "You are not obliged to report this to the police, Monsieur, but you should. I urge you to do so. Hooligans who torture other human beings mustn't be permitted to get away with their crimes."

"I'm certain they won't, Doctor."

Another silence elapsed. "It's dangerous to pursue justice on one's own in this country, Monsieur."

"I haven't much faith in the police."

A sigh. "No, nor have I. Well, I've done what I can. Feed him properly, please, and I presume you will both be here for some time?"

"A short while only."

"You know where to reach me then. Good night."

"Good night, Doctor. And thank you."

The voices faded away, and Sherlock drifted. He felt supremely cosseted, more so when a hand, warm and dry, smoothed across his brow. "Did you hear all of that?"

"Mm."

"I doubt you'll remember any of it. Go back to sleep, Sherlock. It's all right. All right."

The hand cupped his cheek; fingers rasped lightly against his face. Unshaven. He'd have to do something about that. He nestled his cheek into the hand.

 _John_.

He slept again.

 

*

 

When he awoke, three disparate and hazy but indisputable thoughts fastened themselves to his consciousness: 

(1.) His bones ached. Two hundred and six separate points of discomfort, a dull throb he felt certain would sharpen in no time at all.  
(2.) Ian Adler was sitting on a chair near his bed, reading _Time._ The slow flipping of pages seemed very loud, certainly annoying.  
(3.) He couldn't quite remember the third, but it was important.

He said Ian's name aloud, but it didn't quite sound like Ian's name. It did, however, divert Ian's attention.

"Well, well. It speaks." Ian tossed his magazine onto the bedside table and stood up. "How do you feel?"

"Hurts," Sherlock croaked. "Everything." His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth.

"Yes, I expect so. You took quite a beating. You're also dehydrated and malnourished. Did you know that? We had to give you fluids. You might be a bit disoriented for a while yet, though."

Sherlock nodded slowly. His neck, his face, his _hair_ hurt. "What are. You. Doing here."

"Keeping you company." Ian smiled.

"Where. Are we."

"Still in Moscow. To be more specific, in the flat of a friend of mine. A client, actually. She's out of the country at the moment, though, so we've the place to ourselves."

A brief wave of nausea swamped Sherlock. He closed his eyes, feeling the bed swaying beneath his hurting body. "What. Happened."

"You don't remember?"

"A. Bit." He opened his eyes and slowly, slowly turned his head to look at Ian. "Something. For pain."

"Paracetamol."

"No." Paracetamol wouldn't do anything, nothing at all for his bones. They hurt too badly. "Stronger."

"I haven't got anything stronger."

Sherlock gestured weakly with his hand. There was a sticking plaster on the back of it, an incongruous bright blue. "Go out."

Ian sat on the bed and patted Sherlock's thigh. "You want me to find you narcotics on the streets of Moscow. I like you, Sherlock, but you're absolutely daft if you think I'm going to do that."

"But it. Hurts."

"Oh." Ian's expression softened. "I see. And I thought that was tabloid nonsense. Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't realise. The doctor gave you Fentanyl. You're going to have to sweat it out, I'm afraid."

A vague, amorphous fear clutched Sherlock's heart. "Ian. Please."

"Do you want some water?"

Sherlock nodded again. Oh, it hurt. Ian put a straw to his lips, and he drank. Clear, cool, delicious. He hadn't been eating much. Too busy. Time chewing, digesting, excreting was time wasted.

John would have scolded him.

The pain surged again. "Please."

"No." Ian gave him a look that made Sherlock's stomach twinge in mingled anger and shame. Sympathetic. What crust. "Do you want me to call your brother?"

"Certain. Certainly. Not." Sherlock closed his eyes again. If he couldn't get a better painkiller than paracetamol, it wasn't worth staying awake, though soon enough, he knew, sleep would become an impossibility.

"All right." Ian's hand on Sherlock's thigh was warm, oddly reassuring. "John?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "No. No." He reached for Ian's wrist and surged up, or tried to. His hand – three fingers bandaged – sang out, a cacophony of sudden, shocking pain. "Don't."

"All right," Ian whispered. "Don't worry." He gently pushed Sherlock back to the bed. "Sleep some more."

Finally he remembered the third. He clutched at Ian, trying to ignore the pain in his hand. "Trail. Trail's cold."

"You mustn't worry about that now." 

"They'll get. Get away."

"No." Ian's face went stony. "They won't."

Sherlock didn't understand, though it probably should have been obvious. It seemed obvious, but it – what was _it_? – was cloudy, opaque. "Ian. It hurts."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know it hurts. Try to rest."

God damn it. God damn it.

 

*

 

Watching time drag past, minute after agonising minute, waiting for the little carriage clock's silvery fifteen-minute chime, listening to its precisely regulated tick had driven Sherlock mad until he'd finally insisted that Ian remove it from the bedside table before he threw it out the window.

"You can't do that. Galina would kill me. There are only seven of these clocks in the world."

"Six, if you don't get it out of here now."

"Nice to see you're feeling better," Ian had commented drily, carefully taking the clock from the bedside table.

He _was_ feeling better. It had taken days – he didn't want to know how many, the truth would likely drive him round the twist – but he was on the mend, thanks in no small part, he had to admit, to Ian. Ian had fed him, soup and toast and slippy puddings, endless helpings of tea in frail, translucent little porcelain cups. Ian had all but stuffed vitamins and antibiotics down Sherlock's throat, badgering and bullying him into taking the meds. Ian had helped him to the toilet when Sherlock fell on his face in an attempt to walk to the loo, and had manoeuvred him into the tub, bathing and shaving him with an almost prudish fastidiousness that would have amused Sherlock had he been in a more fit state to be amused by absurdities. And Ian had caught him trying to steal out one night when the cravings ate at him and he was determined to get what he needed or die trying.

"Are you really that stupid?" Ian's face had been red, his teeth clenched.

"Get your fucking hands off me."

"Shut up, and get your weedy arse back into bed, or so help me God I will tie you to it hand and foot, and you know damned well you can't get out of my knots. Don't test my patience, you idiot. Look at you, you can barely stand upright." Ian had shaken his head in exasperation, but a smile crept onto the corners of his mouth. "How far do you think you'd have got before falling over, Sherlock?"

"Oh, fuck off," Sherlock had muttered, but he'd staggered back to bed and sank into its softness, breathing a secret sigh of relief.

"You can't do what you need to do if you're strung out."

True as that might have been, it had rankled to hear. "Stuff it up your arse." Sherlock had managed to glare at Ian's smug smile for a moment before falling asleep again. Amazing, he'd thought just before drifting, that the need for sleep had outweighed his cravings. That was a first.

 

*

 

Sherlock woke to see Ian rolling in an inlaid wooden cart laden with food. It smelled perfectly delicious; Sherlock found himself ravenous. He said nothing, though, watching Ian position the cart next to his bed.

"Hungry?"

"A bit," Sherlock admitted, blinking at the variety of edibles. "Did you make it?"

Ian snorted. "My domestic tendencies don't quite extend that far. I can manage tinned soup and tea and anything one can boil in a plastic bag. After that, I let the professionals take over. This magnificent spread is from Café Pushkin. Do you like quail? You looked ready to eat solids again."

"Not this many solids," Sherlock grumbled, helping himself to a cheese blin. He crammed half of it into his mouth and chewed rapturously.

"Well, there is borscht." Ian uncovered a flowered porcelain tureen and spooned brilliant burgundy liquid into tiny bowls. "Slow down. How does your hand feel?"

Sherlock shrugged and swallowed the blin. "Tolerable. How did you know where I was?"

Ian sipped at his bowl of soup. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk about what you've been doing."

"Evading the question?"

"For now."

"I see." Sherlock took another blin. He glanced round the bedroom, done in mostly eighteenth-century antiques and a mélange of soft green and gold fabrics. Not a single surface was unadorned; the entire flat, with the exception of the bathroom, was heavily carved, gilded, tapestried, marbled, inlaid, chandeliered, and bejeweled. Whoever lived here had lots of money, but vulgar tastes. "Who's Galina?"

"A client. Are you evading _my_ question?"

"Possibly."

Ian smiled. "We seem to be at an impasse." He drank more soup, then set the bowl down with a clink. "Why'd you do it, Sherlock? And why Moriarty, for God's sake? I can't think of a more Sisyphean task, but I think you have a habit of wanting to drive yourself mad, don't you?"

Sherlock regarded Ian coolly. "Are you still connected with him?"

"He's dead. And no, I'm not. Do you think I'd have rescued you if I were still working for him?"

"It would divert suspicion, though, wouldn't it?" Sherlock popped a tiny bliss potato garnished with sour cream and caviar into his mouth. "Moriarty might be dead, but his network's a living malignancy," he added flatly. "I'm cutting it out."

"You're no crusader," Ian said. "What changed you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock reached for a crystal glass filled with spring water and took a deep drink. He caught a glimpse of white on the bedspread – his bandaged hand. He looked at it, reluctant to meet Ian's piercing stare. The protective shell he'd cultivated for so long felt thin, arid.

"Ah," Ian said softly. "I think I see."

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock remained silent.

"He doesn't know you're alive, does he?"

There was a distinctive warp and weft in the cotton sheets, particular to a factory in Marrakech. The dye was unique as well, a flower-based pigment that produced a pale, creamy gold. Natural dyes were hard to come by lately. Synthetics had cornered the market.

"You didn't even tell him you were leaving."

"He'd have wanted to join me." Sherlock felt, rather than heard, the incipient tremble in his own voice and took another drink of water.

Ian, pouring himself a glass of sparkling wine, gave a disbelieving little laugh. "Christ, is that so bad?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Of course it is, and you know it better than I do."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, look at you. Firmly unattached."

Ian's mouth twisted a little. "Not for lack of trying." He speared a piece of quail, ate it, and washed it down with wine. "As far as I can tell, you need him as badly as he needs you. Maybe more. He'd have been an asset to you. And he'd resent the fact that you deceived him in an attempt to protect him."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock murmured. "As long as I'm dead, he's safe."

"It would matter to him. I wonder if things will be quite the same when you return from your crusade. I wonder if he'll forgive you. All this time and not a word, not one drop of comfort to ease his grief. What happens when you go back? Are you prepared to see him living an entirely different existence?"

"Drop it."

"He's dating, you know," Ian said. "A woman. The same woman for a few months now. Nothing remarkable. Nothing like you, Sherlock."

"Not interested."

"Her name's –"

"I _said_ I'm not interested."

"I am," Ian replied sharply. "I'm interested. And we're going to talk about him as much as I please. That's the price of rescue, Sherlock. I save your life; we talk about John Watson." A strange little smile played over Ian's mouth.

Sherlock tried the quail, which was delicious. He would play Ian's game – for a while, at least. "How do you know so much about his life? Stalking him?"

"Stalking!" Ian clicked his tongue. "I still live in London, and I keep my ear close to the ground. It's fairly easy to glean information simply by staying in touch with the right people, as you know. Surprised you haven't paid closer attention to his activities."

"I know he's alive and well," Sherlock replied shortly. That was no more than the truth. Twenty quid a month paid for the services of a private agency who informed him of John's whereabouts, his employment, and any unusual activity that might indicate a threat to his safety. He'd specified that he had no interest whatsoever in John's personal life, and so far the agency had complied nicely with his requests. "Besides, I'm a bit busy at the moment."

"Yes, let's talk about _that_ , shall we? Do you know who those men were?"

"Of course I do. _Vor_ ," Sherlock said. 

"Oh, good, you know. Do you know how bloody lucky you were that I showed up?"

"Just like the cavalry," Sherlock said. "Amazing coincidence."

"Not really. You're starting to make waves, you know. Jim's cells were fairly isolated and there was a minimum of communication among them, but when three separate syndicates are infiltrated and…dissolved, let's say…in the space of a year and a half, even stupid people start talking. And making connections. They don't know you're the one behind it, but if they find out, Sherlock, Dr. Watson is in a great deal of trouble. And Sebastian Moran is nursing a grudge against you, did you know that? I saw him last year. I think the only reason he hasn't killed John is because he has some lingering respect for him."

"I'm not happy with Mr. Moran myself." God help Moran if he touched a single hair on John's head.

"Are you going to kill him?" Ian demolished a blin.

"Possibly."

"It won't be your first murder."

Sherlock took a sip of water, then a spoonful of borscht. "No," he said at last.

Ian leant back in his chair. "Even if John does forgive you, things are different now." He spoke quietly, with as much gentleness as Sherlock had ever heard in his voice. "Murder…it can't help but change you."

Sherlock pushed his soup away. John had killed for him. He was simply returning the favour, that was all. "Are you speaking from experience? Besides the _vor_ you dispatched?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

Ian eyed the ravaged cart. "Are you through?"

"Yes. Don't change the subject."

"I've no intention of changing the subject." Ian got to his feet and pushed the cart toward the door. "Back in a flash."

While Ian puttered in the other room, Sherlock stared out the window, an unrewarding exercise as there was little to see besides autumn-bare trees swathed in grey blankets of fog. Moscow fog wasn't any more pervasively dreary than London fog, on the surface, but it seemed heavier and more foreboding, a warning for the thick snows and bone-freezing cold to come.

Maybe he was just homesick.

Ian came back into the room with two mugs of tea and handed one to Sherlock. "Two sugars, splash of milk." He sat in the dainty embroidered satin chair beside Sherlock's bed and cradled his own mug. "The cleaning lady will come in the morning. She's curious about you, but I've never seen anyone as discreet. I should hire her and take her back to London." He sipped tea. 

Sherlock set his tea on the night table, atop a copy of _The Moscow Times_. "You were saying."

"Yeah, I was." Ian sighed. "He was a client. A very prominent individual, widely known in medical and social circles. You'd know his name. Holland Park address, summers on the Riviera, wife and two well-mannered kids. Nice guy." He smiled bitterly. "I was twenty-two, doing my postgrad, and I had a fair following. He'd been my client for four, maybe five months. He was a regular. Not as out-and-out kinky as some of my clients, but he did have specific tastes. Maybe you can guess at some of them."

"Probably." Sherlock tried to picture a barely post-adolescent Ian, doing a postgrad degree in Latin and sex work on the side, still fairly inexperienced, nowhere nearly as poised as he was now. It was a difficult thing to imagine, but he had a fair idea of where the story was going. "I'd say the darker side of power exchanges, consent, pain."

Ian laughed softly. "Give the gentleman a prize. Have you done some reading-up since you met me? I'm flattered."

A blush scalded Sherlock's cheeks; he was glad for the comparative dimness of the room. "Don't be."

"Oh, are you and John –"

"You're digressing," Sherlock pointed out tartly.

"Right." Ian winked. "Anyhow, one day he phoned and asked me to come to his flat, a place he kept in Stockwell. Not quite as nice as Holland Park, more of a getaway when life got a bit hectic, et cetera. Don't bring your toys, he said, he'd got plenty at the flat. So I found the address, rang the bell, went up. The place was ordinary in every way, sort of dull, beige everything, no art on the walls. We sat on his sofa and drank wine, and I fell asleep. Couldn't keep my eyes open, and too stupid to figure out why. When I woke up, I was in his playroom."

Sherlock watched Ian's body. His legs and arms took up too much space in the little chair, but his posture was casual enough. His face hardened, though, taking on a severity that seemed ruthless in the dimming grey light. "What did it look like?"

"Small. Clean. Sleek. Shiny black tile, lacquered walls, stainless steel, like a loo from the 80s. But there was no ventilation, so there was a nasty pong. Are you following?"

"Yes."

"I think it was soundproofed, because I was there for five days and nobody heard me. It wasn't the nicest part of town, and granted he kept me quiet as best he could, but still…you'd have thought that someone might have heard. Called the police." He glanced at Sherlock. "You're not saying much."

"I'm listening."

Ian lifted an eyebrow. "That's new."

"Not really. Go on." Sherlock took a drink of his tea. It was exactly as he liked it.

"I don't know how long he planned to keep me, but not much longer than a week, I suppose. He gave me water and a few biscuits so I wouldn't pass out from hunger, and the rest of the time, he…played. I'll spare you the details, but you've seen similar scenarios in your line of work. When he did allow me to speak, I begged him to let me go, promised I wouldn't say a word, and so on. He laughed. And then he started with the scalpel. He had a great deal of precision."

"Malcolm Lesnie," Sherlock said. "The neurosurgeon."

"Another prize for the gentleman." Ian smiled mirthlessly. "He was careful, but not careful enough. He tied me slackly enough for me to work one hand free, then the other. You'd have been proud. When he came in later, and turned his back on me, I strangled him with the rope he'd used on me. Then I went into his closet and found a tracksuit and trainers, and five hundred pounds in his wallet. I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich, and I left. There was blood in my hair and on my face, the tracksuit and trainers were much too small, I was bleeding from multiple penetration and moving awkwardly from same, staggering really, and no-one gave me a second glance. I love London." There was no irony in Ian's voice.

"The papers said he died of a stroke." There had been something odd about the case, as Sherlock had read it, but he hadn't deemed it of much interest – not enough to warrant further investigation, at least.

"Well, I suppose technically he did. It was a cerebral accident, of sorts. I can't imagine his wife was too eager for publicity. Either she didn't know about his little playroom or she _did_ know, but either way, the public never found out how he really died." Ian shrugged, and his face was serene and cold in repose. "After that, I never bottomed again. And I never accepted so much as a drink of water from a client again."

"And were you sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry that I murdered him? Not in the least."

"But it changed you."

"It did. And it's changed you. I can see it in your face. John will see it too. You'll never go back to the way things used to be. So I wonder, Sherlock, if all this was worth the trouble."

Sherlock leant back against the pillow-stacked, carved-gilt headboard and closed his eyes. Before his encounter with the _vory v zakone_ , he'd dismantled one of Jim Moriarty's more profitable ventures, a human-trafficking ring centred in Dubrovnik. He'd shot the ringleaders, point-blank, and had freed the only slave they'd kept on the premises, a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen. He'd covered her with a thin blanket and spoken to her softly, though she hadn't understood a word. She'd cringed away from him, then after realising that he didn't mean to do her harm, had clung to him desperately, sobbing.

Startled, Sherlock had held the girl, rocking her gently back and forth, stroking her hair. And at that moment, all the longing and hurt and grief he'd held back for so long seeped through the cracks, and though he'd screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth hard, the tears trickled out, and he couldn't stop them. It was for John, naturally; for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and for this little girl, forced into servitude and degradation, but for that moment, it was too much. He wasn't a crusader, wasn't a machine, and all he wanted, ordinary and dull and safe as it might have seemed, was to go home.

He couldn't go home, though. Not then, and not yet. 

"I don't know," he said.

The bed dipped slightly, and Sherlock felt a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes.

"Do you know why I really came looking for you?" Ian asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Because you were alone." Ian moved closer, and kissed him.

Sherlock froze for an instant, then yielded. Shame pierced him: _Didn't even have to think about it._ He thought of John, of the woman he was dating. He could have found out, but he hadn't thought that John would….

_Would be unfaithful to you? You're dead, for God's sake._

Ian's fingers slipped under the thin t-shirt Sherlock wore and traced the gentle peaks and slopes of his backbone, the hard ridges of his ribs. Delicately, deliberately, his fingers moved round to his belly, no longer flat but concave, and slid lower, coming to rest on Sherlock's hardening cock. His kisses grew harder, more demanding, until he was plundering Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, but didn't push Ian's hand away. "Can't."

"Why not?" Ian fastened on Sherlock's throat, licking and nibbling. "Self-imposed celibacy? You haven't had sex in almost two years?"

"No, I – there was a prostitute once. Marseilles. A year ago."

"Man or woman?"

Sherlock unbuttoned Ian's shirt. He told himself he couldn't stop. Just a physical release, only once. "Woman."

"And how was it?" Ian pushed Sherlock back against the pillows and pulled down the front of Sherlock's underpants so that his cock sprang free. He traced the tip of his tongue over the head, teasing at it.

"Oh, God. Oh. It was…I've had better encounters with my hand. She tried, but -- _oh_ \--" He fumbled in the direction of Ian's trousers with his good hand.

"Let me." Ian unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers, pulling them off and tossing them to the floor. 

No underwear. Typical. Sherlock reached forward greedily, his hips thrusting upward without conscious design. He saw John's face in his mind's eye and opened his mouth to Ian's kiss again. _If he knew you were alive, would he wait for you?_ He clasped Ian's arse with his hand and brought him closer so that Ian straddled him and their cocks rubbed together, a painful, delicious friction. _When you go back, will he leave the woman he's with for you?_ He surged forward, devouring Ian's mouth, likely bruising him in his ferocity. 

"Stop," Ian muttered, licking at Sherlock's nipple, tantalising it into a hard, stiff peak.

"Stop what?"

"John's in London. He's not here." Ian ground himself against Sherlock's prick, and his hands descended on Sherlock's thighs, spreading them widely apart. "For whatever reason, you left him there."

"My reasons were…sound…."

"Sound? Logical? He'd love to hear that." Ian pulled back and climbed off the bed. He unbuttoned his dishevelled shirt and let it fall to the floor. Naked, barefoot, he stood still, only his erect cock and the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying him. "And you're not with him now, are you? I'm going to take a shower. You can join me if you like and I swear to you I'll never say another word about it. Not to John, not to anyone." A cynical little smile twisted his mouth. "This isn't part of the price." He turned and sauntered away, into the bathroom. 

Over his own erratic breathing, Sherlock heard the sound of taps turned and the rush of water. He rubbed his hand over his prick and let out a shuddering sigh, then got up and made his way unsteadily out of the bedroom.

The bathroom was already filling with steam. Sherlock opened the glass shower door and stepped into the large stall. Ian glanced over his shoulder, then turned, drawing Sherlock close. He kissed Sherlock more gently and clasped him close, his hands cupping Sherlock's arse, squeezing, slipping the tip of his finger inside. Sherlock gasped.

"No toys," Ian said, his lips tickling Sherlock's ear. "No tricks."

Sherlock braced his bad hand against the wall. _Shouldn't have wet the bandages. Too late now._ He insinuated his thigh between Ian's and nudged them apart, and pushed Ian up against the wall. "Tell me what you want."

"I haven't the faintest idea."

Sherlock fastened his teeth on Ian's chin, his tongue scraping against rough stubble. Maddening. He suckled Ian's earlobe. "You know. Tell me."

Ian shivered and kissed Sherlock again. "Fuck me."

"You want me to fuck you." Sherlock grasped one of Ian's wrists and pinned it to the white marble wall. He rubbed up against Ian, provoking a moan. His heart quickened, and he rubbed harder. "Turn."

"Sherlock –"

"Turn, I said." Sherlock laid his bad hand on Ian's shoulder, urging him round. He fitted himself against Ian's body, his wet, hard prick stiff against Ian's firm arse, and renewed Ian's erection with a few quick, merciless strokes.

"Sherlock, oh God –"

Exploring Ian's neck and shoulders with his mouth, Sherlock pulled his hand from Ian's prick and sought the bottle of bath oil out of a bewildering array of ornamental bottles in a carved niche. He rubbed some on his cock until it was slippery ( _Floris Honey and Almond. Smelled awful, but got the job done_ ), then leant close to Ian's ear. "Spread yourself."

Ian nodded, and his hands trembled slightly as he obeyed.

Sherlock positioned himself and pushed his cock inside Ian's body. _Oh, Christ. Tight. Wasn't lying._ He eased in, bit by bit, until he'd sheathed himself entirely and pressed Ian against the wall. Slowly, holding himself back, Sherlock drove himself forward, then back, gasping at the sensation of Ian's muscles clenching on his prick. He reached around Ian again, letting his good hand, still slick with oil, trail up the underside of Ian's cock, in time with his slow thrusts.

"Sherlock –" Ian's hands were flat against the wet wall, his knuckles white with tension.

"Shh." Sherlock fitted their bodies together again, then locked an arm round Ian's ribcage. He increased the strength and urgency of his thrusts until he was ramming into Ian's body, fucking him hard, harder, until Ian cried out, contracting around Sherlock's prick, and Sherlock followed, coming in violent waves that wracked his entire body. He gave a guttural cry and sank his teeth into Ian's shoulder. 

Silently, for long, long moments, they remained still, shivering even in the near-scalding streams of water, waiting for cessation and subsidence. At last Ian turned and enfolded Sherlock in his arms.

He hadn't been held like that in nearly two years. And for the second time in nearly two years, Sherlock wept.

 

*

 

He slept, a deep and dreamless sleep that he’d never thought he'd experience again. Once or twice the pain in his hand woke him, but he pushed it away, feeling comforted, feeling oddly safe.

At some point he awoke and felt Ian stirring beside him. He reached out, and his good hand brushed against Ian's chest. He laid it flat, feeling the warmth of taut flesh and the steady rhythm of Ian's heartbeat.

Almost imperceptibly, Ian's pulse quickened.

"What is it?"

There was a long silence.

"Nothing."

 

*

He awoke to find himself alone. 

Ian's clothes were gone, the book he'd been reading missing from the night table. Naked, Sherlock explored the flat, finding no sign that Ian had been there.

_Maybe I was dreaming._

No; a slight extra soreness, an exceedingly pleasant ache, put paid to that.

He went into the bedroom again. A fresh set of clothes was neatly stacked on the carved chest at the foot of the bed. He dressed clumsily; Ian had re-bandaged his fingers, but they throbbed. He passed a mirror in the sitting room and paused.

While it wasn't exactly what he'd worn in the past, it was….

Plain black suit, nice worsted, measurements mostly accurate. Fitted cotton shirt, a bolder stripe than he'd have chosen, but still. No tie. Wool coat – long, but straight, not nipped in, not tweed. Black gloves, correct size. Blue scarf.

It wasn't exact, no. But he looked more himself.

John would know him in an instant.

He went to the door. Lying on the console table was a single folded sheet of A4. He opened it and saw a thumb drive taped to the paper. On the back of the sheet was a note.

_Time to go home soon. Perhaps this information will speed the course._

_I had a notion to stay, but changed my mind. I hope your homecoming is as happy as it can be. You'll understand if I don't ask you to pass on my regards to Dr. Watson. Nevertheless, I wish him good fortune._

_If our paths cross again, let's have dinner._

_Spes aeternum oritur._

_Ian_

Sherlock folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. He left the flat and stepped into the grey Moscow afternoon.

The wind blew cold air over the Moskva quays, and Sherlock huddled into his coat, walking faster. For two years he hadn't dared look backward; it would have undone him entirely. Now he slid through the crowds, blending effortlessly into urban traffic, and ignoring the twinges in his hand, took a deep breath.

He'd be home soon. And then he'd determine what had changed, perhaps even examine how he'd changed. He'd see if forgiveness was a possibility. There was a lot to forgive.

Ian was right: spes aeternum oritur.

_Hope springs eternal._

 

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Hope you enjoyed!


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